Dullahan Rewritten
by Cherryayay
Summary: A rewrite of my Dullahan. Might as well make it better, eh? Can this soulless grim reaper find the nirvana of emotion he wishes to find? And how will Beacon, nay, the world of Remnant do as one mistake filled with numb emotion could bring things much more dark and MUCH more threatening to the world of Remnant? Pairing undecided, aiming towards Lancaster
1. Chapter 1

Man. What a weak species. Not even capable of dealing with themselves, they are weak and pathetic. In a place that could only be described as a void of pitch black, there was a figure of even darker shade, bright blue flames the only color as diamond shaped eyes peered into a globe of even darker, writhing mass.

Weak and pathetic they may be, but how ever so entertaining they were.

They feared their demise that all of them would reach at one point or another. Feared the idea of simply closing their eyes, to never open them again. Never see the next day, never aspiring to their fruitless dreams.

It was rather humorous, how they decided to make their demise into two things: Ultimate punishment or ultimate pleasure. Many aspired to reach their "Heaven", to meet their loved ones, last for eternity with their puny "gods". Either that, or they were sent to their ultimate damnation, where they would rot and writhe in their respective punishment, to be their for all eternity.

Well, at least they were close to the truth.

They would reach their punishment or their salvation, but it wasn't entirely as they thought. There was a sickening cackle that echoed throughout the never ending void of dark matter, the flaming blue eyes that were that of the dark creature almost as twinkling with mirth.

Gods...how pathetic. To think some puny creature bearing the same shape and morals as themselves would be their greeters to the afterlife, thinking that it was they who ruled the Underdark.

Those "Gods" were nothing but pathetic souls given a scrap of power from the never ending expanse of the Void, the endless Shadow.

A wet sound similar to that of disgust rippled through the dark matter. They thought that their weak deities and gods would take their souls to their final destination. How pathetic.

So quick are mortals to forget those that really choose their fates, whether out of the right decision, or more commonly, their own amusement. Another sickening chuckle echoed out, two hands of the purest black gently cupping the black orb in front of the soulless creature.

Oh, he relishes the times he gets to see their puny souls quiver in fear, their even weaker voices begging for a chance, a true salvation. From kings to peasants, those that worked and those that lazed about, throwing their weight around or squirming under the boot of those more powerful than they, he feels nothing but pure glee when he can make those drawled out decisions, making the souls of the dead quiver and tremble, before being condemned to the fate he sends them too.

Many a time, he simply sent them to a damnation just for what mortals call "fun". When you're a creature of the purest dark and ultimate sway of the soul, it simply becomes a way of life never to experience joy and outright emotion by ones self, only drawing out the sensual pleasures through action, not coherent and puny action in the darkness of the Void.

But those times are...no. There is tell of time in this endless plane. The border between final destination and the physical plane. Purgatory...yes, a fitting name.

Countless worlds, but none could ever fully fill the scope of these dark creatures, the lesser ones basking in the pleasure of ultimate choice and powerful sway. To his own people and the mortals, he could be considered a god's right hand, but in reality, he would slay that so called god before ever becoming a servant.

With truly reaching a greater power came the price of the only emotion he would feel, only the unforgettable memories bringing that sensual feeling to his wisping chest.

Their was another grunt of disgust. How utterly disgusting. A higher power...right. That was just another form of expressing he needed to make room for the newer Spawn, let the new bask in emotion and glory, while the experienced simply lose their basic "fun", forced to watch over their given mortal **wufrus** , or world.

That doesn't mean his wasn't interesting, oh, far from it.

Blue diamonds of fire narrowed as they took a slight sick delight in the pure... ** _emotion_** radiating from the small mortal, fiercely watching as the female cowered in the dark, a violent shudder wracking her body.

Oh yes little mortal, death _is_ watching...

The pure ecstasy of that small fraction of emotion he could feel vanished as a dark claw and several gaping maws tore into her, those small sensual feelings being replaced by a dull numbness.

Those little slivers of old ecstasy only appeared during times where true emotion was seen, and that was far and few in between. This was only a sliver of that sliver, but it was enough for the old Spawn to feel a...what do mortals call it? Ah, a shiver of joy. If only he had a beating heart, or a soul, it would surely be pounding to the smallest feeling his black wispy body could feel.

A growl ripped out of a non-existent maw, the darkness around it churning and coming unraveled.

No more.

Higher calling his soulless corpse. He needed those old feelings **now.** The black orb dissipated in a flash of black flame, replacing with something all Spawn hold in their pits of missing soul.

His weapon, his scythe.

There were two parts: the scythe itself, huge and plain, but deadly and made to slice, cut and dance through those against the blade, the other, a smaller off-hand one with an icy blade, made to bring the chill of death to those they hunted back when his people roamed the physical plane.

There was a noiseless cut through the very fabric of his world, black and white flecked, a pure tear opened, black claws gripping the edges. Tearing it open with a grunt of pure numb anger and muted frustration, the hole widened enough to fit his massive body, the outside a cracked image of a dark forest, nothing seen but smattering of nature and moonlit plains.

The thought of the disgrace his higher calling would be giving him for leaving his position, taking this selfish action never stopped the Spawn, never slowed the struggle as it forced itself through the quickly cracking image.

With a force of empty defiance, the pure lack of emotion muted and perverted to this soulless mass unable to be made real, the black wisps of the creature settling to fit through the quickly closing gate.

With a crack of what mortals call glass, and the portal closed.

There was an odd feeling on the wispy body, sizzling of something dying around it, and then a horribly dark and maddening cackle pierced the dark.

He did it...he was on **wufrus.**


	2. Chapter 2

The night was dark, and there was a croaking hum of satisfaction, the emotion weak and walled behind the irremovable barrier that all his kind was plagued with.

" **Malédiction de faux**..." The Curse of False...An unwavering infliction, but it was effective. It kept his people in place, prevented them from leaving, knowing that the only way to feel such _sensual_ feelings of mortal emotions was to stay in their place, where "feeling" and "emotion" was channeled through to them, in their everlasting Purgatory. It made them stay, do their unending job until the very plane of physical existence ended, until every little **wufrus** on the brittle plane of shining existence ended, and the cycle finally ran out of fuel.

Another croak slowly drawled out, slowly coming into a cracking and chittering laugh. There were always, _always,_ a hole in that damning curse, a way around such an immovable force.

Simply, leave the Void. Rip open the very plane of existence thy spirit resides in, and enter to the other realm. Easy, passable.

But not so.

While one may return to their original realm, it was a slow process, requiring one to build up enough power to reopen a "tear" in the fabric, a process of unending concentration and utilizing their stored energy into a push, forming a sheen over their soulless pits, their weapons, to then be quickly used to make a "tear".

The Void was made out of this very power, some would say, the Dark Spawn' very life force.

It was simple in context, in thought, and many a Spawn had toyed with the idea. But there was a reason none ever did.

As their "lives" were in a endless realm of this Dark energy, leaving it would weaken their permanent flow greatly, almost making them as frail as the mortals they watch. The very flow of this energy, normally something as smooth as mortal rivers, simply flowing to and fro gently and in control, would change suddenly from a flowing river to a bed of molasses.

As they be something of mortal, their power weakened, and the very notion they couldn't exist as normal, with many situations they would never experience in the Void, this practice wasn't very used.

Lush, green grass and healthy trees began to gray, sizzle and fade to ash as the very nature around them was sucked of life as the Dark Spawn passed them. Reaching a stream of silent, smooth water, the Spawn stopped, watching with muted awe as the image was now physical, and something that he could interact with.

He, to his own world, would be considered a male of good looks, an aura of past accomplishments and power radiating around him with the timeless age of the Void, something many a female would find alluring, something to desire in a male. His flaming blue eyes, a rarity to the normal gray and black blazes of his kind, were far and few in between, the glow and pure color the Spawn's eyes gave off were an immediate outward allure to any females in his presence, the long coat of black smoke forming a flowing outline of the mortal physique was lithe and controlled, the smoke kept strong and funneled around him in an attractive air. His scythe, smooth and firm, with the gently curving blade a dull silver, and the off hand blade a glorious blue complimenting his flaming eyes, he had been one of the many desired males, and his gifts at his creation was another bonus. The Spawn people used their outward appearance and weapons as items of desire in a fellow Spawn.

He was a "needle in haystack" (such odd mortals...), a one in a million type of Spawn that made him popular with his people. Females cooed and jittered, he would train the New Spawn he could tolerate, and he would bask in the muted envy of his fellow males.

But that was to his fellow kind. The mortals...he actually twitched a bit, the nearby tree quickly crumbling into ash as it slid into the dirt like sand. What they described him as was rather...off putting.

Skull decorations and mutilated flesh? Why would he hold a head in his arm? Couldn't he just reattach it? Mortals were odd to say the least...

There was another thing. A twinkle of unfeeling mirth glowed in his eyes, the flaming diamonds surging slightly with brighter flames...then died. A horrible, grisly death not even he could bring to the afterlife.

Pure, raw emotion that all his kind revered as a sensual pleasure, the only they truly desired for, was hard to come by, even when he had the duty of soul transfering from the Underdark to the Afterlife. Rare, and that was a thing all his kind looked for, hence them staying in the blasted Underdark, allowing the curse to control them.

While being on the mortal plane would make it easier to feel the desired emotions, it would still have to come in pure, raw potency, fresh from the mortal expelling it, so strong he would feel drunk in pleasure.

No doubt, he would still feel emotion from the mortals, maybe even experience some real emotion from just staying on **wufrus** for a while.

A groan resembling loud, cracking bone and meaty tearing filled the empty area around the Spawn. He would practically be constantly cock blocked, the pleasure from emotion slightly building up, fading and only occurring during strong emotional expelling, even for the smallest bits.

Why didn't he think this through? He'll be stuck on the blasted circle of rock for hundreds of mortal years just to complete the spell to return to the Void, and that's only if he started now.

" **Con il vuoto**!" By the Void! His outburst sent a shock wave through the still waters in front of him, trees and grass alighting with bright blue flames for a single second, the river quickly settling even as the bottom began to rot.

Regardless, he should make the most of his time here. He can focus on the spell later. Helping (Killing/slashing/mating/helping/messing with) the mortals should prove something of entertainment.

That said, the glow of muted anger and frustration dispelling, a firm thought came into play.

To have fun, he would need to look and speak like a mortal...even further limiting what he could do to a meat sack form...using even more energy to make a fake heart...and even more to create a faux soul...

" **Dios mio**..."


End file.
